


Take the Long Way Home

by Punk_Kenobi



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alcoholism, Blood, Detoxing is messy, For Martin anyway, Gen, I swear this ends happily, Interrupted suicide attempt, M/M, Pre MJN, Rehab AU, Seizures, Vague mention of vomiting, Verbal Abuse, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 15:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Punk_Kenobi/pseuds/Punk_Kenobi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Martin was told early on that putting hope into patients wasn't the best thing to do, as a lot of patients relapsed and came right back within a matter of months or even days. He couldn't adopt that same, pessimistic train of thought that everyone else had.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take the Long Way Home

**Author's Note:**

> PSA: Read the tags. If it's not your thing or it might make you squick, don't read. The vague description of him being ill made me squirm in anxiety but it's an inevitable thing in detox.
> 
> I don't even know what happened here. I'm not sure it'll appeal to anyone but I thought the idea of Martin being a doctor in his younger years while he was just starting out, trying to make some money while in flight training, was a good one. And where Martin was just getting his wings, Douglas likely was losing his. So here you have it, doctor!Martin semi-overseeing Douglas while he's in detox. It's stupid. You've been warned.
> 
> As usual, this can be seen as either gen or Martin/Douglas, depending on your fancy. Somehow I can't write outright romance but I guess that helps.

His first impression was that this was going to be a difficult job, if the angry shouting and the horde of nurses rushing to subdue the patient at the end of the hall was going to be a constant.

Instead of being able to see who was causing all the fuss, though, Martin was shuffled into a small office to discuss what sorts of things he'd be doing. The head of the unit was a tall, lanky man with an upturned nose, Martin noticed. He would call his appearance snobby if he wanted to be rude about it. Sitting down in front of the desk, he gazed at the numerous framed pictures of soothing things like waterfalls and forests and a cat, inexplicably. Martin pondered just how he'd gotten a job in the detox unit of a fairly opulent rehabilitation center while the doctor's monotonous tone droned on like background TV static. He was already familiar with what tasks a person of his profession would do.

He wasn't exactly the best in terms of grades in uni. Oh, sure, he studied and worked his ass off, but there was no luck in his cards when push came to shove. He didn't even really want to be a doctor anyway but the money was there. Besides, there wasn't much to him physically that anyone could call "promising," either. He looked pretty average, really, with normal posture and all the body language that's so important in job hunting, but his demeanor nor body language had anything that people would immediately notice. He was lucky that the hospital was in dire need of staff after a round of layoffs, even if it meant being paid much less than what was standard. Martin wanted to help, though. Even if it wasn't his true calling, helping was definitely something he loved to do, especially with people struggling to help themselves.

How were people supposed to help themselves alone when they were past knowing they needed it?

\--------

_No one takes his books. Not even if he's throwing them at the walls in frustration, cursing just about everything and everyone he knows. They're the only things that distract him from the nausea, the pounding in his head, the visions of things he cannot describe but scare him into complete, frigid stillness until the convulsions start again and the monitors they have him hooked to start their arrhythmic screeching once more. They still his hands when he can't even drink from a paper cup without sloshing half of it on his pajamas like an invalid. They comfort him when he's crying because he no longer has anyone to hold him and tell him it'll be alright, no small hand to hold in his and know there's still some semblance of order and love in his world. They help him through the nights where sleep is an impossibility. He may barely register the words at most times, skimming his eyes over the familiar pages, but that was the thing. They were a source of familiarity for him._

_No mercy is shown for those who do take them. They're all he has left in this shit-hole of a life. Without them he has nothing left to live for...or so he tells himself to make the act all the more real. He can't continue without this illusion for it's what will grant him his ultimate freedom. He's always been adept at spinning lies and casting illusions like a regular magician. He's just now preparing for the final act of his grand performance._

_A light jingling of keys sliding into his pocket is mistaken as the nurse's own movements, and he allows himself to be tackled to the bed and suddenly there's a pinprick in his hip. Left alone, he slides into oblivion happily, knowing his illusion held for the time being and it wouldn't be long._

\--------

Martin's first shift is fairly uneventful. The patient at the end of the hall was silenced by the time he'd left the head of the unit's office, likely due to a sedative more so than any real behavior change. He was told that was sometimes necessary, as it could serve as both a way to calm an irate patient and also provide the sleep they often couldn't obtain themselves.

He was assigned to a young woman whose doctor had been laid off, an easy case he was told, since she was nearing the end of her detox period and was to be transferred to the rehab area of the hospital within a day or two. She rarely protested taking her medications and was generally calm for someone detoxing, though she looked gaunt and listless, though that might have been simply due to withdrawal. Meeting her was as pleasant as could be in her situation. A small, wan smile splayed across her lips as Martin introduced himself and told her of the plans for her care. A glint sparked in her eyes when he mentioned her being put into outpatient rehab services.

"So I'm almost done...good. I'll get to see my daughter soon."

Martin smiled, completely genuine in his words. "Yes. I'm sure she'll be so happy to see you. You've made remarkable progress."

The woman paused in thought. "I'm doing this for my little girl, nothing and no one else, so I have to get my shit together as quick as possible. A child needs her mum."

A few more minutes of discussion about medications and means of therapy ensued, and Martin had a cautious optimism about the woman. She seemed genuinely concerned for her own health and her relationship with her child and that the best way to restore that was to quit drinking and doing drugs.

Martin was told early on that putting hope into patients wasn't the best thing to do, as a lot of patients relapsed and came right back within a matter of months or even days. He couldn't adopt that same, pessimistic train of thought that everyone else had. Oh, in front of the patients you were supposed to be optimistic, sure, and ply them with platitudes about how well they're doing and that they have so much out there for them, but Martin knew in the back of the others' heads they were already assuming they would relapse. He wouldn't be like that, all of his words would be genuine and heart-filled. He was raised with the knowledge that if you believe hard enough and try hard enough, anything could happen. He believed in the patients because he knew the patients didn't believe in themselves. If they came back, he would do the same thing he did the first time and maybe the messages would stick. Moving on to the next patient, Martin had to wonder...if these were the "easy" cases, did he really want to know what the harder ones were?

\---------

_He knows there are ways in a facility like this if one were patient and sneaky enough and his lies at ornate metal fencing around the roof of the rehab center. Bit dramatic, but he's always been one for theatrics, having been in theater off and on in his life. It's a tall building, high enough of a fall to be fatal to one whose body has had such a toll taken upon it. He was a drunk, not an idiot, he could calculate such things. In the front of the building, magnificent as the architecture is, he'll add his own grandiosity to the landscape. He never leaves a place without leaving his mark._

_His thoughts are muddled by the withdrawal and most of what he thinks about is forgotten in the haze of sedatives wearing off but he could still formulate a plan of action. He's always best at planning and even better at the execution, even when he was five drinks past drunk. God, he'd love a drink right now. There were no words that could accurately sum up how much he craved just one sip of cool vodka, the pleasant warmth in his belly giving him the feeling his heart hasn't felt for what seems like ages. The things he would do for one drink of whiskey are absolutely degrading and he wouldn't give them a second thought if it meant booze was in his reach. He'd be in heaven._

_Instead, kneeling on the floor and hunched over the toilet, he only has the burn of bile in his throat as illness takes over him in waves, a twisting feeling in his gut that's partly the nausea and partly hunger. His whole body tremors, nothing out of the ordinary, but his chest hurts, his abdomen, the effort wearing on his body, thinned out as it is by a lack of proper nutrition and general apathy for his own well-being, the pain in his side simply his attempts at hacking up a lung, he tells himself, rather than anything serious. He knows the hallucinations will start again soon, he knows the signs. His hands stop shaking as badly as they do, his nausea increases, his head pounds, and he starts sweating up a storm. Next his ex-wife will be standing next to him, spouting I-told-you-so's and you-didn't-listen's in that icy venom voice she kept solely for his fuck-ups. Sometimes she tells him to kill himself and he simply replies that he's working on it._

_"You're not worth the bed you sleep on, you degenerate sod." she'd say, arms folded and her stance strong, staring down at him. "I should have known this was how you'd end up, curled on the floor and begging for a drink like a helpless fucking animal. No longer the once great Captain that you were, now are you? Now you're just pathetic."_

_This wasn't even Hell or Purgatory or other painfully cliche comparisons....no. This place was life support for people who had nearly died of their temptations and vices. Rehab was a place most came back to, though, once their vices overtook them again and again ad nauseam. Some, like him, even wanted to die by their vices. There wasn't anything out there for them, there wasn't anything out there for him, either. He wouldn't be like that. He wouldn't be coming back until he grew tired of the game. In a way, he would never leave, really. All the doors in the unit are unlocked, of course. Anyone could leave if they truly wanted to use again instead of waste time and money and he desperately wanted a drink. But no, that isn't what he's seeking, not really. There are doors he knows would be locked that he'll need access to for what he has in store._

_"Go on, go do what you know you have to. You're so pathetic you can't even live with yourself as the failure you are..."_

_Next comes the waiting period. Of course, it wouldn't just be waiting. It would be watching how the nurses move up and down the corridors during the night shift, usually with sleep in their eyes, a slouch in their back and step, and barely paying half a mind to their jobs save for a patient in the throes of delirium tremens having a stroke or heart attack. He's hooked up to machinery, in case he himself has a potentially fatal episode, but taking care of the monitors to keep them from being set off is easy work when the set of keys also has a decidedly non-standard multi-tool on them. The quaking in his hands only serves to dismantle the monitors even more. By the time the night nurses come for their rounds, he'll be in his bed, sitting up and holding himself because while it was a valid look for someone detoxing, he couldn't deny it felt nice to have arms around him, even if they were his own. It was a lonely thing for sure, but he didn't have to feel the crushing loneliness for long. After the nurses left, he would leave. The seizures could happen at any time, however, and could affect his grand scheme. He'll have to plan for if they happen while he's en route._

_Whatever it took, he would do what he tried to do with alcohol. He's failed at being a husband, a father, a pilot, a smuggler, loathe as he is to admit, and he can't fail at this or he will no longer know what to do with himself. He doesn't fail, or so he tells himself, but the evidence against him is staggering._

_"Fail at this and you'll be even worse. You'll be an animal. No, not even that. An ant I can crush with the heel of my boot. Then again, I already did that to you, didn't I? Can't have our daughter knowing you failed at everything you've done."_

_He can't imagine living the life of a failure._

\----------

Martin decided that this job wasn't as difficult as he thought it'd be. No real incidents with his patients came up, they left for outpatient services or the rehab portion of the facility that required being clean before entrance, and all was doing well. A couple of patients were left on the unit, the more severe cases, but every day there was one more patient to see. More than one, really. It was inevitable the rooms would fill and he'd be busier than ever. Going from room to room, Martin met his patients and told them what would be going on if they were lucid enough with a smile on his face that he hoped wasn't patronizing.

It was quickly evident that he was the favorite of the patients. Two to a room was the general rule and word spread of Martin's kindness within the first day. He had to remember that these were people who had been treated poorly, had gotten the short end of the stick in life, or just had nothing left to them. Therefore he made it his job to bring warmth and even humor into the patients' lives, try to make them feel better even when they were doubled over with nausea in their beds or hunched in the corners, crying and begging for a drink or a syringe to help alleviate their symptoms. In turn, he noticed patients and their conversations with each other, remarking on how he stayed even while they were ill or woke up from a nap because of night terrors and needed or wanted someone to talk to, which Martin was always willing to do.

Still, he never heard much from that one room at the end of the hall. Even the patients at the end of the hall had heard of him when they weren't ill or otherwise out of it and had asked him to help when they were frightened or sad or just if they wanted someone to smile and tell a joke. He'd had to help keep one or two safe during their convulsions. After the second day he'd not heard of the doctors speaking about the patient there much, only seen one go in to check on him and a few nurses, and aside from one minor scuffle, there wasn't much going on. No loud crying, no rage, he couldn't hear anything from that door. Quite curious, given one could usually hear something from the rooms at the end of the hall. Often it was terrified screams, as the DT could bring on severe hallucinations and night terrors and all sorts of unpleasant things. Other times it was crying, loud wails punctuated by quieter requests for things they couldn't provide. When Martin walked down there, almost all the rooms had their lights off, including the one he was intrigued by. Unfortunately, though, the patient he wanted to see always had his door closed, the little viewing window not giving him much to work with besides a strip of light that shone on the vitals monitors. Martin didn't know how long the patient had been there. Generally the detox period was about a week, give or take a day or two. It seemed like he'd been here at least three. Martin was told the single rooms were at the end of the hall and were reserved for the patients suffering from DT symptoms, as their conditions were the most unstable of all and required single rooms. Usually that meant the longest-abusing patients, as the severity of symptoms could correlate with how long alcohol or drugs were used, thus the longest stays.

Eventually, Martin decided to dig through the patient roster sheet while staying the night on the unit, since the couches were actually more comfortable than his bed back in the attic. Whether it was curiosity or the lack of having his Microsoft Flight Simulator '95 to practice with, he wasn't sure. Finding the room number, he read the patient intake form, as no other incident forms had been filed as of yet.

_Name: Douglas Richardson_   
_DOB: 19/8/65_   
_Date of Admittance: 23/1/06_   
_Room #: 118 (Detox unit)_   
_Emergency Contact: ~~Rachel Richardson:~~ N/A_   
_Familial Status: Divorced_   
_Children #: 1_   
_Financial Obligations: Alimony, £600/mo._   
_Parole: N/A_   
_Previous treatment for mental health concerns: One year of cognitive-behavioral therapy after OD, age 22_   
_Reason for Admittance: Alcohol dependency, used heavily for twenty-five years, OD'd two days after piloting while intoxicated, nearly caused an accident, transferred from hospital in his hometown by his friend and manager once stable_   
_Additional Information: Cirrhosis of the liver and damage to other organs from sustained alcohol abuse, likely permanent, special dietary restrictions in place to help aid in healing, as suggested by his primary doctor, as well as ongoing medication given for his conditions. Manager says she can be an emergency contact if necessary and has given her phone number and address in the event that the patient wishes to keep in contact. She mentioned the patient's recent divorce, loss of parental rights to his daughter, and loss of job/loss of Captain rank at Air England over illicit acts as possible contributing factors to his recent binge drinking._

Martin couldn't help focusing on the last part of the reason for his admittance, stretching a bit on the couch before settling in a more comfortable position. He was a pilot and he was actually drunk at the control panel? How irresponsible! He couldn't and wouldn't pretend to know how alcoholism could affect one's judgement but he had to wonder whether this Mr. Richardson had even considered what he was doing before drinking and getting onto that plane. He could have endangered tens or hundreds of lives with his behavior. That alone busted whatever light-hearted curiosity he had, but considering his own love of aviation, he wasn't entirely turned away by this knowledge. Perhaps he'd have to visit this patient at some point. Maybe talking about flight would help him work through his problems, though it could also upset him, what with the reason he overdosed. Martin knew he would be treading on eggshells if he even attempted talking to the man. The anger he could hear was fierce, unrestrained. The silence made it all the more unnerving.

Martin jumped as he heard the unit door slam out of nowhere.

\-------

_Simple, so simple. People are allowed to leave the unit if they wish, except at night. He shouldn't have slammed the door behind him but he had to make a hasty exit to avoid being seen. Kneeling behind a corner, he takes a couple breaths to steady himself. He's barely left his bed the past two days aside from when sickness was an issue. He hasn't felt at all well for the last few weeks, that last bottle of vodka was such a bad idea, so his legs feel like jelly, and he wills himself not to fall over. Not to mention the pain in his side didn't really leave. Honestly, being upright alone was making him feel ill, but it wouldn't be long as he pulls himself up by the railing on the wall and keeps going, intent on finding the staircase he knew was around here somewhere. Everything is hazy and his head is spinning, but the sign for the stairwell keeps him going, Rachel following his every lethargic step._

_"What a long hallway....almost there, you useless sack of shit."_

_Finally, he makes it to the entrance to the stairs. He reads "rooftop access" on the little placard next to the stairwell and smiles a small, relieved smile, wiping his nose which starts running all of a sudden and traces the words, slightly raised from the placard. He probably looks about as well as he feels, sniveling like a child. It isn't snot, though, but blood, he sees as he pulls his hand away from his face. His hands could barely hold the keys without dropping them, let alone finding which one to use and unlocking the stairwell door. The blood didn't help and he nearly drops the keys but manages to keep them in his hands. Eventually a click resounds in his ears and he slips into the stairwell quietly and begins his ascent. Every step is agony, and he's forced to stop at the top of the very first flight, looking up at the next five with desperation, Rachel screeching in his ear._

_"What are you waiting for, you fucking idiot?! The sun and the moon to come together? Get up!"_

_He can't manage more than a weak "I can't..." in response. Black tendrils snaked at the edges of his vision, as if there were a monster about to grab him. Only the voice of his ex-wife continued, no welcoming darkness._

_"You're weak. I knew it. What if it was Hannah up there? How about that, hm? What if Hannah were up there, threatening to jump. What would you do then?"_

_Weak determination flared up in him at that, he would never admit it was genuine fear. Standing and gripping onto the banister for support, he takes the stairs slightly quicker than before, though his arms start quaking halfway through and he drags himself up the stairs to a flat area just as he could feel the convulsions start ripping through him, forcing him to curl into the fetal position in a corner of the third floor landing, hoping no one would come through the door right next to him. It was late enough that no one would be bustling about, but the small noises he let out echoed off the stairwell walls. This wave hurt more than the others, as if every fiber of his being were on fire and being slammed against a wall, pain blooming not only from his side but also his head and his stomach and he wasn't sure if he would be ill, not here in the hallway like a damned invalid..._

_He couldn't die like this. No, he has to be dignified, completely in control of what he's doing. He has to make it up those stairs. Then the pain, the nights he spent drowning in increasingly cheap vodka and yelling at no one for everything that's wrong with his life, they would all be forgotten in bliss. The seizing in his limbs, the yelling and the strange whimpering assaulting his ears, everything would just stop. His mind was fogged as it was, if he could just get to that total silence...._

_It feels like years before he stops shaking, but now his limbs are weaker than ever. He can't get up no matter how hard he tries. He can't block out the yelling from behind him, Rachel's shrill voice boring into his skull._

_"Look at you! I'm so ashamed to have ever taken your name! Lying on the floor, shaking and crying like a baby...a failure and a weakling!"_

_He doesn't realize he's crying. He doesn't cry. He hasn't since he was a boy._

_With limbs that can barely hold his already weak frame up he climbs the stairs on all fours, no longer able to stand upright, blood dripping from his nose and tears still streaking down his cheeks._

_"Good...crawl your way up there like the dog you are and do what you know you want to do."_

_The climb seems endless, but the fall will be so sweet. It'll feel just like flying again..._

\--------

Martin was startled out of his slumber by the sounds of squeaking sneakers on linoleum, hushed and frantic voices coming from the nurses' station.

"He couldn't have gotten far....tell the guards...he shouldn't be out of bed..."

He got up and went over to the station, startling the nurses. "What's going on?"

One of the nurses, a new man Martin couldn't remember the name of, spoke first.

"One of the newer patients, Mr. Richardson, the one in room 118? He's gone. Shouldn't be out of bed, he's really out of it. Severe DTs, bad liver, he's probably not aware of his surroundings, he could be seizing while he's out and we wouldn't know, or worse. We don't know where he's gone, other than the open doors, don't know how he disabled his vital monitors..."

Martin quickly quashed the feeling of panic that was rising up in him. He could lead this search.

"Listen to me."

The nurse stopped his rambling, looking at him expectantly. Martin didn't know how old the man was but he couldn't have been older than his mid twenties. He could understand the trepidation and fear, as he didn't have years of experience either. With a start, he realized this wasn't just a job to tide him over anymore. This was a patient's life. These were all patients' lives, and he, as of the moment, was the protector of all of them.

Martin continued, swallowing thickly and pointing at two of the nurses. "Logan, you and Patterson stay here and make sure the other patients are attended to." The two nodded, though they'd been here for years and knew what they were doing. With a huff, the two went back to their normal duties.

"The rest, follow me. We're going to look floor-by-floor for Mr. Richardson, as well as the grounds. In his condition he can't have gone far. If you find him, alert both the front desk and the nurses back on the unit. Make sure he's stable, don't agitate or frighten him, and bring him back to the unit."

Everyone nodded their compliance and started to leave, but Martin added before they were out of earshot, "Take the elevators for the higher floors, they'll be faster. I'll take the first, you all spread out among the other five."

With that, he rushed off to search the first floor. He avoided areas he was sure the the man wouldn't go, checking the cafeteria, the bathrooms, the front doors. He checked with everyone, including the guards, the janitors, everyone he could find. Someone had to have seen him, a detoxing alcoholic wouldn't exactly blend in. Out of desperation, he checked the places he wouldn't go, too. The administrative offices, the small gymnasium, the storage rooms.

He would have missed the stairway door, off in the corner of the building and slightly ajar with scratches in the paint around the keyhole, if it hadn't been for the stark contrast of blood on the white floor and a small bit on the door itself. The sight of blood on the words "roof access" sent chills down Martin's spine. He knew that could only mean one thing.

_No..._

\--------

_He made it. His reward was right here, the ornate fencing the only thing keeping him from eternal silence. It was surprisingly short, nothing he couldn't easily step over and make his way onto the ledge. He just needed to be able to stand. Rachel suddenly turns kind behind him, cooing soft encouragement into his ear._

_"Yes....you've made it, love, just stand up and you'll be free. You've been here so long...you can leave now. You've done so well, so good, you didn't fail at this."_

_He can leave. He can finally sleep, knowing there'll be arms to hold him safe and loved, and that's all the encouragement he needs to get on his feet. He'll no longer be a failure, no longer just a washed-up pilot with dreams of grandeur._

_He'll have real wings when he flies this time._

_His stance is surprisingly steady, and he feels no tremors running through his body. He feels nothing but the cool January wind on his face, the winds that will sweep him to the skies, where he belongs. He steps over the fencing and feels his toes grip the edge of the precipice. He just had to lean forward._

_"Yes, that's it...I can help you if you want."_

_He turns to look at his wife, all beauty and charm, smiling warmly like she used to do, and thinks. "I don't need help...I want this. I'll do it."_

_"But you're not moving, are you?"_

_He scoffs at that like a petulant child. "No, I'm not."_

_"If you didn't need help, then you would have done it by now."_

_"If you stop talking to me and leave me alone here, I will. I'll fall. I want to fly."_

_"But I can't leave you, not when you need me, you can't fly without me....just fall, love. Don't think about it."_

_"No, leave me alone."_

_"But-"_

_He's pissed off by now. She won't stop talking to him, won't stop nagging him. "I said...Leave. Me. Alone!"_

_He can feel the world spinning around him, tingling in his hands and feet, head pounding, and he can tell another seizure is coming. He can't die like this. He tells himself he's got dignity. The feelings he always has before them have started again. He lets himself fall, feeling warm arms surround him as his body contorts and convulses, the pain ripping a shriek from him._

_Rachel disappears, only to be replaced with a face he's never seen before. The arms holding and moving him are the stranger's. Oh well, they're better than nothing. He can't focus on anything but the face above him, speckled and fiery as the pain overtakes him._

\----------

Martin took the stairs two by two in his haste to reach the roof, trying to keep the fear and panic out of his mind. He can't have jumped, not yet, not now, when he was trying to get better! He wouldn't have come here in the first place! Then he remembered how he was transferred straight here from his hospital and how, on the financial documents, it was shown that a Ms. Knapp-Shappey was paying for his stay here, not Mr. Richardson himself. He was only here to keep his job, a job he nearly lost by nearly crashing the plane. A job he wouldn't have needed if he hadn't lost his previous one. A loss he would have been able to handle better if he hadn't been forced into divorcing his wife and losing his child in the process.

He had to get up there. Quick.

Finally, he could see the roof door open, ajar and blood smeared on it just as before, and looking down, Martin saw the trail of blood that was left down every flight. Just the word "flight" spurred him into action, reaching the door and pushing it open quietly and carefully. He could see the hunched over form of the man he was looking for and restrained himself from running over in fear of startling him, even as he saw the man stand and step over the railing. His own voice betrayed him as he stuttered,

"M-Mr. Richardson. Come away from there, y-you need help."

"I don't need help...I want this. I'll do it."

Martin didn't know what to say. It was clear in his tone that he wasn't talking to him, he must have been seeing someone else. "You're in p-pain right now. You're likely hallucinating. I know you're alone. You don't have to be alone. You're upset over losing your job and child."

"No, I'm not." The man's voice sounded like a child, he would have heard that voice many times long before this.

"Mr. Richardson....Douglas...you can't stay here. You could have a seizure and fall. You'll be in even more pain or even die." Martin reasoned, even though there was no reasoning with someone in his state.

"If you stop talking to me and leave me alone here, I will. I'll fall. I want to fly."

Martin chewed his lip, anxiety rising in him. "I can't leave you here! Come with me."

"No, leave me alone."

Martin couldn't back down. "But-"

"I said...L-Leave. Me. Alone!"

Martin rushed over as he noticed the man starting to sway, grabbing him and pulling him to the ground behind the safety of the railings, and none too soon as he started seizing. The bloodcurdling shriek was absolutely painstaking to hear coming from a man like him. Martin didn't know what kind of man Mr. Richardson...Douglas was, but he couldn't imagine that this was something the regular person did often, if at all. Could have been more severe problems as well. Rolling him onto his side, he quickly told the details into his two-way radio and pretty soon there were nurses up there, making sure he was stable as the convulsions ceased, leaving the man weak and unable to stand. Martin watched as they injected him with lorazepam before moving him downstairs, shadowing the nurses in a guise of professionalism.

Really, though, he was worried for him. The man was clearly in a shambles but was lucid enough to devise plans, though he had a sneaking suspicion the hallucinations aided. As much as he hated doing so, he'd have to lock his door from now on until he was done detoxing. They put him on his bed and Martin hooked him up to new machines that were brought in while they were gone. The man was already asleep, the gauntness of his face lit sharply by the halogen lighting. As much as he was told not to, Martin pitied the man lying in that bed, tucking him in. That wasn't his normal self and wouldn't be his normal self for a while, whatever that may be. He knew he'd get back to that place, though. Just like with everyone else, he had hope that he'd recover and stay sober and live a healthier life than he had been.

Shutting the lights off, Martin locked his door, but not before giving one last glance at the man on the bed.

\------

_The next few days were agony, though he can't be sure that they were days not not weeks until much later. It is a haze of anger and pain and bashing his hands on the door, now locked from the outside, until they bleed. Even as he's restrained and put into splints and casts to keep him from hitting his hands upon the door, he often uses his head until the pain nearly makes him black out._

_Eventually, though, he's done. He's detoxed._

_He has a long process to go until he's allowed out, though. Inpatient rehab care and therapy are better, anything is better than the locked room he had. He considers leaving several times, though he stays for the glimpses he catches of red hair and freckles as he brings new patients into the rehab unit._

_That sight somehow grounds him, even at a time where he would love to take flight and leave from this place, finding the nearest bottle of alcohol and draining it in less than a minute. He's not sure why._

_He has bad days, of course. Ones where he barely leaves his bed, not out of physical pain but the feeling of being worthless, of being a failure, and not seeing any point in anything. Days where he barely eats because his stomach's upset, thanks to his busted liver. They say he's lucky and that they caught the damage early. With medications and diet changes, he'll easily be able to control the slow decline for years, even decades. He's always been lucky in the short-term, though. He's wary that he'll live for decades, especially when the urges to drink are terrible and force him to practice the piano he's allowed to use in the communal room. His hands shake but not as badly as they did, and the other patients and nurses love when he plays, singing tunes and blocking out the noises of the room with his own baritone._

_"There are times that you feel like you're part of the scenery, oh the greenery, it's coming down, boy....then your wife seems to think you're part of the furniture, oh it's peculiar, she used to be so nice...."_

_That alone makes the urges fade slightly, that he's being useful to everyone. He ends up playing until either his hands are sore or his urges are gone, and occasionally the redhead pops in when he hears him sing. Once he turns to look, though, the man scuttles out like a startled animal._

_Carolyn and Arthur stop by when they can. He's not sure if he wants to talk to them but out of politeness he does. Mostly he lets Arthur ramble on about this trip and that, as Carolyn hired a temporary replacement while he's here. The young boy was always vibrant and even now he bounces in his seat a bit while he describes another trip with much the same adjectives._

_"The trip to Lima was really brilliant though, Douglas, the sky was really blue and there weren't any clouds! And the llamas we saw once we got there were absolutely..."_

_"Let me guess....brilliant?"_

_"How did you know?"_

_Nothing he hasn't heard before, obviously, but somehow, the saccharine cheeriness Arthur provides makes him smile. It wasn't a big smile nor was it really all that genuine, but sometimes it's nice to have a bit of positivity among the false hope and cheeriness the staff provides. Carolyn doesn't overlook the smile, either, giving him the same one in return, but the glint in her eyes says a lot more than her smile lets on. He supposes the urges might go away after a while, hopefully, so he wasn't worried too much. He just doesn't want to lose the last few vestiges of care he has, even if they're from a hawk-eyed CEO with a wit to match his own and a steward-in-training with far too much energy and unconditional hope and praise possible for just one man._

_It's nice to know they believe in him, truly believe in him, believe he'll go back to being the mighty sky god he once was. Arthur's hope gives him the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he will be that same god one day, though he'd never voice it to anyone. Carolyn's determination matches his own, and if she thinks he can return to the skies, he most likely could._

_It's a nice feeling, indeed._

\--------

Martin finally got a job. It wasn't great, he wasn't being paid, but that's what he had the van for. Few extra jobs here and there and his living expenses should be taken care of. Straightening his tie and Captain's hat in the mirror, he smiles a bit. He's finally doing what he's always wanted.

When he arrived at the airfield to meet with Ms. Knapp-Shappey in the portocabin about the day's flight plan and its distinct lack of alternates, he freezes in his spot as he hears quiet singing coming from the little corner with a coffee maker, the voice familiar in his ears as a tall figure boiled water. Though he looked nothing like the man he'd seen years ago, now that he was rather filled out around the middle, hair neatly coiffed and pilot's uniform fitting his frame well, that voice was unmistakable.

_"I hope the weather is calm as you sail up your heavenly stream, suspended clear in the sky are the words that we sing in our dreams..."_

Martin smiled. He supposed he should be shocked, really, but an overwhelming feeling of relief flooded over him instead. He's sure Douglas wouldn't remember him, even as he introduced himself, gaining the most charming smile he'd ever seen in response.

"First Officer Douglas Richardson. On behalf of Carolyn and Arthur, welcome to MJN Air, the small, out of the way airline that seems to attract oddities wherever we go. You seem to be the newest one."

As Martin scoffed and reprimanded his new First Officer for the quip, Douglas did nothing but smile fondly at the little man that was supposed to be his new captain. This was something new. They were going to be flying, both doing what they loved, and in the same ramshackle mess of a plane. For better or worse, this was their lot in life.

The two could get used to it, though.

**Author's Note:**

> I got the ending song lyric from Oasis' song, "Let There Be Love." I got the other, the one Douglas sings in rehab, from Supertramp's "(Take the) Long Way Home," probably one of their most famous songs and one whose entire lyrics fit Douglas, in my opinion. Also the title. Gotta say it's one of my favorite songs.
> 
> As a footnote, the headcanon for Douglas losing his job or sobering up comes somewhat from my mother's own turning point with alcoholism and the positive outcome. Went into her government job drunk, got told the same thing. My bro and I were kids at the time and my mom had recently split from my dad, so she had our custody riding on her sobering up, too. She did and we're all fine, fourteen years later. Still, I've gleaned some knowledge about rehab and detox from her, having accompanied her to AA/NA meetings for six years of my childhood. It's a very bumpy road, but it gets better and you get to where you want to be eventually.
> 
> Anyway, I guess that's enough blabbering on. Thanks for reading!


End file.
